Chapter Three
Ryan
My alarm goes off too early the next morning.
I groan, rolling over to shut it off. I want to just hit snooze and go back to bed, but I’ve got to try and talk to Lana before she leaves for class and I head to the arena for practice.
I’d stayed up far past midnight last night, despite my exhaustion, giving myself one of the most intense orgasms I’d ever experienced to thoughts of Lana in the shower, followed by excessive chastising for thinking about my best friend’s sister that way.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I push to my feet and pull on a clean shirt and gray sweats.
I open my bedroom door and the rich, intoxicating scent of breakfast hits me, making my stomach growl.
I quickly relieve myself in the bathroom, splash my face with cold water, and then join Lana in the kitchen.
I pause, watching her hum to herself as she cracks eggs into a bowl.
She’s wearing a loose, cropped white T-shirt and denim shorts that hug her curves perfectly.
My fingers twitch, wanting to feel her squirming against me as I gently grip her soft, blonde waves, using them to hold her steady while kissing her speechless.
No. I can’t do that.
I clear my throat and Lana spins around, her feet tangling together. She throws her arms out to catch herself, nearly knocking over the bowl of freshly cracked eggs. I jump in and catch her and the bowl before either can fall.
“Oh!” She’s staring up at me with wide eyes, and it registers that I’m holding her. Her body feels so small pressed against mine, and she fits perfectly in my arms. Like she was made to be there.
“I don’t remember you being quite this clumsy,” I murmur, pulling her closer.
Her breath hitches and she sputters, trying to answer. “Well…I—”
“It’s alright, I’ll be there to catch you when you fall.” I give her waist a final squeeze before reluctantly letting go of her. Immediately missing her warmth.
She laughs and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Thanks, Ryan.”
My heart stutters and butterflies fill my stomach. I try to tell myself it’s just because I’m hungry.
“Whatcha making?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Well, I saw your diet plan on the fridge this morning—not sure how I missed it last night—and figured I could make us some eggs and turkey bacon. I also washed the berries that looked like they were about to go bad.” She fidgets with the hem of her T-shirt, then seems to remember the eggs need whisking.
“I can go grocery shopping later if that would be helpful.”
I watch, in awe that she even thought to make sure it was something I could eat, as she scrambles the eggs and pulls the bacon from the oven.
“You don’t have to do that,” I manage to get out.
“I don’t mind. I know you’ve got practice and might be late a lot of nights. It’s the least I can do since you’re letting me stay here for free.” She talks quickly, obviously nervous.
Tucker certainly wasn’t lying when he said she was considerate.
“Would you like me to get you something to drink?” she asks while plating the food.
I realize I’ve been glued in one spot and jump into action. “I’ve got it. Orange juice okay for you?” I ask, reaching into the fridge. The berries she mentioned are sitting in a bowl on the top shelf.
“I prefer milk, if you have it.”
“One percent okay?” I ask.
She looks over her shoulder and grimaces at me. “I guess,” she moans dramatically, like she used to whenever Tucker would ask her if something was okay.
Rolling my eyes, I get out two glasses and pour our drinks. I then meet her at the breakfast table, trying to come up with how to tell her about yesterday.
Better to just get it over with I suppose.
“Lana.”
“Huh?” She looks up, a forkful of eggs halfway to her mouth.
“I’ve got something I need to discuss with you,” I say, more serious now.
She straightens in her chair, and sets down her fork.
“Okay?” Her eyes are wide, like a rabbit ready to flee.
“It’s nothing you’ve done,” I reassure her. I take a bite of the bacon to try and keep the conversation casual, and end up letting out a moan. It’s perfect, crunchy around the edges but still a little chewy at the center. I always end up overcooking it.
Lana’s brows shoot up behind her bangs, and she shifts in her chair.
Shit, I made her uncomfortable.
“Sorry.” I swallow and take a drink of my juice. “It’s just really good.”
Her cheeks turn red and she looks back at her plate.
“I’m glad.” She picks up her fork again. “What did you want to tell me?”
I catch myself watching her lift a forkful of eggs to her mouth. Watching her eat shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
“Like I said, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m the one who did something incredibly stupid.”
Her delicate brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
I take another bite of eggs and run through the details while I chew, trying to figure out how to describe yesterday’s nightmare. “I was in a PR meeting yesterday, and the team is fed up with my apparently stand-offish public image.”
“You? Stand-offish?” Lana tilts her head, and I swear to god it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck and lean back. “I’m the all-star grump of the Houston Lone Stars.”
She nods, obviously holding back a giggle. I’ve always been private, and a bit of a grump. But not around Tucker, and apparently not around Lana. She clearly remembers me very differently than the man I’ve become.
“Well, because of that, my PR team decided they want to force me into a fake, arranged relationship with some celebrity influencer for media attention. Before I could stop myself, I blurted out that I have a girlfriend.”
Lana chews her lower lip, obviously sensing where this is going.
“And…” I swallow hard. “When they pressed me for a name, I said it was you, and that you’d just moved in with me.”
I hold my breath, bracing for her to be angry or call Tucker and tell me off.
The rest spills out in a rush. “I’m so sorry, Lana.
I tried telling them it needed to stay private, but they wouldn’t listen.
They expect me to make a public appearance with you this week, or they’ll set me up with a fake relationship anyways.
I’ll straighten it out today and tell them we broke up when I told you or that I’d lied. I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”
Lana watches me with a curious expression, then shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
I blink, stunned. I anticipated anger, not agreement. “You’re sure you’re okay with this? I don’t want this to screw things up for you with school or anything.”
“Yes, I’m okay with it. You’re allowing me to live here, in your private space, rent-free. If pretending to be your girlfriend helps your image and keeps the team from setting you up with some random pushy influencer…” Her nose crinkles. “I can do that. When do we need to make a public appearance?”
“Sooner than later, if you’re absolutely sure you’re okay with it,” I add, relief and shock washing over me. “Dinner would probably be a good start.”
“Okay.” She gives me a small smile, then looks off to the side. “I might have to get something to wear...”
“I’ll send you some money to get something after class.” I return the smile.
We plan to go out tonight since she says it’s better to just rip the band-aid off. I make reservations at a restaurant downtown, we finish breakfast, and go our separate ways.
As I pull into the arena parking lot, I can’t help but feel protective of Lana. I don’t want to share her with anyone, especially the media.
***
That evening, I feel my protectiveness spike even further when the waiter’s eyes linger a little too long on Lana.
She’s a vision in the light blue dress she picked out.
It’s got thin straps, a draped neckline, and the skirt falls to just above her knees.
I was surprised, but also grateful, she hadn’t picked something shorter.
She’s already going to be on display tonight.
I don’t need the paparazzi getting more than either of us bargained for.
She takes in the restaurant around us, her lips parting in awe at the romantic setting. The lighting is low and intimate, candles are lit on each table, and the ambient music is soothing. It all feels far too real for a fabricated PR stunt.
Or maybe it’s perfect.
I feel a twinge of guilt. This is too much to be putting on Lana twenty-four hours after she arrived, and less than that since her first classes.
When the waiter returns with our drinks, he also brings two wine glasses and tries to pour wine I didn’t ask for. I put my hand over the one in front of her.
“We didn’t order wine.”
He looks at me in surprise. “Of course, it’s on the house, Mr. Walker,” he adds, still trying to pour.
I keep my hand over the glass. “While I appreciate the gesture, we won’t be drinking tonight.”
The waiter straightens, seeming a little miffed, but otherwise listens. “What can I get for you then?” He sets down the bottle to take out his notepad.
I order for both of us, having asked Lana what she wanted when we arrived, and the waiter leaves with our order and the wine.
If anyone asks, I’ll tell them she simply doesn’t drink because she’s focused on her studies. I refuse to even drink around her, not only out of respect for her age but also to avoid a potential scandal if a photographer captures a shot that makes it look like she’s drinking.
“How were classes today?” I ask, attempting to break the silence between us. Not because it’s awkward, but because I genuinely want to know how her day was. I normally don’t ask anyone that.
“They were good.” She folds her napkin and settles it into her lap, nervously smoothing the corners. “It was all just syllabus stuff today. I’m excited to get into the real work.”